


Never Try To Trick Me With A Kiss

by Laine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Sexual Content, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 19:18:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 4,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1123432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laine/pseuds/Laine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of short stories, each centered around a kiss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1. Hot, Steamy Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> Not every story is rated "M", but a couple of them are, so I'm giving the whole compilation that rating just to be safe. The title comes from "Never Try To Trick Me With a Kiss" by Sylvia Plath.

There’s a sheen of sweat on his brow when he leans his face close to hers, and she worries for a moment that he may be taken with fever.  He cups her cheek in his left hand; his palm is cool and clammy, and instinct compels her to recoil.  Just the smallest shift of her neck and shoulders, and Jaime’s eyes set aflame, glittering with a menace that she finds shamefully thrilling.

His hand moves around to fist the hair at the nape of her neck.  The strands catch beneath his jagged fingernails, and he presses the fingertips so hard against the soft skin that her knees threaten to buckle.  She grasps the hard muscles of his upper arms to keep her balance-

And then, an assault of the senses- soft lips, rough beard, cold hands, warm tongue.  

He’s kissed her before: chaste and chivalrous pecks on her cheeks, her brow, and sometimes her lips.  But it never seemed anything more than posturing, playing the knightly role and observing the courtesies, just as the songs would demand.  She’d been reminded of nothing so much as the silly, giggly kisses she’d gotten from Robb when they were children, when she would convince him to play knights and maidens.   _Just a farce_ ,she’d always reminded herself- she needed to still the quickening of her heart and to quash the part of her that still delighted in the charade, the idea that Jaime Lannister the Kingslayer might be her golden Knight, and she his fair Lady.

But there is no posturing here, no precision at all.  Her hairpins slip out of thick curls and clatter on the parapet floor as he pulls and gropes.  She lets her arms snake around his chest; the hard, supple ridges of his back contract under her palms, and she begins to ache- desperately, exquisitely.

She bites down on his lip, and his golden hand presses into the small of her back, bringing her even closer.  Her head swims with hazy lust when her lower belly presses to his groin- he’s hard, and she brings one hand down and around, her knuckles barely brushing over the front of his breeches.

Now is his turn to recoil.  He jolts, tearing his mouth from hers and creating a small but significant space between them.  She’s gone too far, she knows it now- her cheeks burn red as coals, and she pulls her hand away, withdrawing farther and farther…

  
It hurts, when he grasps her wrist and squeezes tight enough to grind the bones together.  She does not miss the flicker of distress in his eyes when he places her hand back on his groin and rocks himself into her palm.  But then his lips are on hers again, ravaging and claiming, and she finds it very possible to convince herself that it’s only desire that makes him tremble like a leaf in her arms.


	2. 2. Cheek Kiss

He saddles his horse on the coldest morning he’s encountered since beginning his journey north.  Honor whinnies his objection; the newly-built stables at Winterfell are well-insulated, and Pod had succeeded in procuring the warmest wool horse blankets to guard the animals against the bitter chill.  

But Pod will not join them on the road, with his satchel of honeyed grain and the short-bristled brush he uses to bring an incomparable shine to Honor’s hide.  No, he has chosen to remain in Winterfell with the Lady Wolf to whom he’s sworn his fealty…both him and the wench.

Brienne’s decision to stay with Lady Sansa smarts more sharply than Jaime cares to admit.  He can’t claim  _surprise_ exactly; the Maid of Tarth swore a vow, and he knows more than anyone her commitment to her promises.  Even so, he thinks that he might have been able to convince her…tears shone in her eyes when she embraced him last night…perhaps if he had pulled her closer, perhaps if he had whispered the right combination of words in her ear…

But breaking her oath would cost both of them too dearly, and so he left it there.

Anxiety competes with excitement as he leads Honor to the exit path and stares out at the snow-covered fields.  There have been rumors- whispers of dragons streaking across the Narrow Sea, murmurs of lions in captivity within the Red Keep- but he cannot tell exactly what he will face when he returns to the capital. He dreams of his sister, even after all this time- he dreams of silencing her with his remaining hand clutched around her throat, he dreams of striking her across the jaw with the golden hand, again and again until her perfect, pearly teeth scatter across the floor…

And he also dreams of kissing her breathless and making love to her as the sun dapples her skin with gold, as she whispers apologies in his ear and promises never to forsake him again…

A crunch of leaves behind him interrupts his reverie.  The Lady of Winterfell approaches, swathed in white furs, her breath visible in the icy air.

She pauses to stroke her palm over Honor’s flank.  Her eyes focus down at her feet, and she draws her lip between her teeth in a way that sends a shot of blood to Jaime’s cock.  

“I hear your husband has returned to the capital,” he says in a voice that wavers more than he would like.  “I’ll be sure to send Tyrion your regards…that is, if he doesn’t have my head taken off first.”

“Don’t jape about that…it isn’t funny,” she replies, still without looking at him directly.  

He steps closer to her then, and she shivers (not with cold, he’s sure of it) when he strokes his gloved fingertips down her upper arm.  

“You must bid me farewell, my lady,” he murmurs, twisting a long curl of red hair around his forefinger.  “The songs all say-”

She does not miss the sardonic undertone to his words, and she responds with a derisive snort of laughter.  But she does look up, and her cold, glove-free hand cups his cheek.

There’s no one there save a few stablehands, and he leans down, his mouth hovering just an inch above hers-

But she turns her head, offering him her cheek.  And when he kisses the wind-chapped skin, a hot stream of tears flows down the curve of her cheekbone, past his lips and onto his tongue.  

 


	3. 3. Nose Kiss

His lips curve up into a smile- but there’s always an edge to his smiles, a sardonic, sarcastic soupcon of mockery that makes her bones quake with inexplicable rage.

 

And yet, she cannot help but notice the way his eyes sparkle like jewels, the way the creases in his brow make him look distinguished, the way his white teeth glow in the low sunlight and his golden hair becomes a coronet around his head.  Her belly churns and her skin turns to gooseflesh as she feels her breaths become shallow and her pulse become quick-

 

Jaime leans in, closing the scant distance between them- she feels her knees soften, and she sways forward, her head tilting back and her eyes fluttering shut-

 

His chapped lips brush the tip of her nose.  Just a light, careless, throwaway gesture, a silly jape of a peck.  He’s still smiling, and now that she’s properly incensed, she notices the condescension, and her sudden burst of rage is enough to curdle the acid in the pit of her stomach.

 

The heels of her hands strike hard against his chest as she pushes him away.  His smile wanes and dies, replaced by confusion and vexation- the green eyes narrow and the strong jaw tightens, and a warm satisfaction fills her from the top of her head to the tips of her toes.  

 


	4. 4. Forehead Kiss

After the Dragon Queen ripped her throne out of the bramble of rose thorns and shunted the little lion cub into exile, Jaime Lannister expected to die a traitor’s death before ever bending the knee.  He had no plans to kneel before a queen, not now, not anymore.

 

And so it is with some trepidation that he places his sword down on an icy field and lowers himself down until his kneecaps hit the hard ground and the chill seeps through his breeches.

 

The Queen in the North strokes her cold hands through his hair- it reminds him far more of a lover’s caress than it should, and his stomach clenches without warning.  

  
Skirts of blue wool pool on the ground when she bends her knees to kiss him- just a brush of her soft, plush, chilled lips over his brow, and he gasps aloud.


	5. 5. Firm Kiss

When she finally kisses him, she thinks nothing of coquetry, nothing of courtly games.  She does not look up at him through lowered lashes, and she does not wait for him to smooth her hair behind her ear and gently cup her cheek.  Her eyes never flutter shut, and no rapturous sighs escape her lips.  

 

Instead, she stands straight-backed before him, nearly tall enough to meet his level gaze.  He’s confused by the proximity; she always stands at least a pace away from him (it’s easier to avoid the gold and green that way, to escape the memories that spring up like weeds in her mind).  

 

She places one hand on his pauldron and slides the other into his hair; without warning, she gives the golden strands a solid pull, and he bares his teeth in a snarl.  But before he has the opportunity to ask what she’s about, Sansa presses herself close and covers his mouth with her own.

 

There is no softness here; her lips push against his hard enough to bruise.  And they both keep their eyes open all the while.  Even when she leans back to take a breath, even when Jaime intitates the next kiss, just as hard as the first, blue meets green on equal footing, unflinching and unrelenting and brutally, painfully honest.

 


	6. 6. Gentle Peck

It takes him some time to locate a goldsmith quick enough and steady-handed enough to complete the task.  They haven’t been able to linger anywhere, after all- they pass through port cities and mining villages, laying their heads down to rest in flea-infested inns for only a handful of slumbers before moving along.  

 

All the while, Sansa mutters under her breath, rehearsing the lines she plans to recite to Tyrion when they reach Casterly Rock, the words of contrition and the pleas for his favor.  And Jaime knows that he ought to do the same- but every time he imagines standing before his brother and looking into those pained, furious, mismatched eyes, he feels as though he’ll be sick to his stomach.  

 

Instead, he focuses on the bauble, trying to recall the finer details of the one Cersei used to wear, drawing crude left-handed sketches on scraps of parchment.  At last, they manage to stay in one town long enough for him to see the project through to completion.

 

He presents it to Sansa on a cold and clear morning, as they saddle their horses and make ready to ride farther west.  Her lips twist when she pulls aside the paper to reveal the necklace, and he wonders for a moment whether she finds it familiar, whether she recalls the heavy golden collar, embossed with a lion’s head, that Cersei would wear with her plunging gowns.

 

“You should wear it when you ask for an audience with your husband,” he explains with some haste.  “He’ll appreciate it…a sign of respect for House Lannister, and all that.”

 

Her jaw tightens and her eyes flash, but there’s a tenderness to the way her forefinger traces the curve of the lion’s open mouth.  

 

“It’s lovely,” she says with a slight waver to her voice.  “Thank you, dear good-brother.”

 

He visibly jolts at the word “brother”, and she doesn’t miss it.  Still clutching the necklace in one hand, she takes a step toward him, one red eyebrow cocked.

 

“What?  You  _are_  my brother, aren’t you?”

 

Her words drip with challenge, and he wonders whether he can hear his heart as it rattles against his breastbone.  The gap between them shrinks and shrinks, and he feels the words tickling his tongue, intent on releasing their poison into the air-

 

“Yes, sweet sister.”

 

The soft touch of her lips to his stings like a knife wound.  He thinks that if he lingers, if he opens his mouth and brushes her tongue with his own, the pain might subside, giving way to something else entirely.  

  
But it would cost him too much to take the chance.  And so he breaks the kiss before it really begins, pivoting on his heel and giving her his back as he tightens Honor’s reins and hoists himself up into the saddle.


	7. 7. Romantic Kiss

She knows that she ought to pray for the fever to vanish, for his health to return.  They’ve been forced to halt their progress, staying put in the shabby camp they created just above the Neck.  This northward journey already seems endless, and it will grow longer and longer while he remains ill…

 

And yet, when she kneels before the heart tree (in a real godswood- they’re properly in the North, now), she finds that she cannot wish Jaime well.  

 

The sickness festers in his mind, growing and spreading until his memory turns to mesh and his sense of reality drips and melts and distorts like hot candle wax.  When she sits on the side of his cot to replace his cool cloths and give him herbs to chew, she can see the mist in his eyes- his pupils never quite dilate, and she knows that he cannot really see her.  She knows what he sees instead- even if there had been any doubt, he chased it away with his blissful, boyish grins.  He lacks the strength to speak aloud, but his lips shape a word, a name, the same one each time (not her own…never her own).

 

But then…then, his hand will slip into her hair, and he’ll pull himself upright, leaning close and giving her that beautiful, slightly-crooked smile…

 

His lips tremble when he kisses her, and although his skin is hot, his breath is cool when he sighs into her mouth.  He kisses her as though her lips are made of berries and cream, as though her tongue taste like sweet summer honey.  He kisses her as though he holds the Maiden herself in his arms, delicate and desirable and perfect beyond measure.  And although she knows what lurks behind it all, she cannot help but fall into his embrace, cannot resist returning his caresses, cannot ignore the swelling of her heart-

 

The way he kisses her….he kisses her like a man in love.


	8. 8. Eyelid Kiss

Winter comes for her more quickly than he would ever have imagined. 

 

The bitter cold claims her in the night, as simply and silently as the snuffing of a candle. In the infant light of dawn, he finds her cold and still, wrapped in the furs that did nothing to protect her, her skin parchment-pale and her icy eyes half-open.

 

“It’s too soon,” Brienne chokes out through her tears, clutching the girl’s limp hand to her breast. And it is on the tip of Jaime’s tongue to agree-

 

But then, he registers the sight of her, tragic and radiant, frozen at the height of her beauty, the apex of her youth. His stump itches beneath the golden hand, and for a brief and wild moment, he feels a churning of jealousy. Sansa Stark will never grow old, will never become frail, will never suffer the indignities and cruelties of passing time.

 

They decide to continue their northward path; even in death, Jaime sees no reason to keep Sansa from reuniting with her bastard brother. She’ll have a proper northern burial, with the last remaining member of her family to offer the rites-

 

He owes her that much.

 

As Brienne lopes off to the supply wagon to retrieve wrapping blankets, Jaime kneels on the frozen ground, the dead girl’s head on his lap. She looks peaceful, as though she’s merely sleeping….save the partially-opened eyes, which glitter violently, unsettlingly in the low sunlight.

 

He places two fingers on her lids and gently slides them down. And he cannot help it- he leans down and brushes his dry lips over her eyes-

 

Her skin is as cold as the ground beneath his knees, and even the heat from his tears can do nothing to ease the chill.


	9. 9. Jawline Kiss

He trims his beard only enough to keep it from catching on the clasps of his cloak. The hairs are thick and dense, several shades darker than the hair on his head- bronze rather than gold, threaded through with silver and a few strands of white.  

 

The beard obscures his features- his high cheekbones, his strong jaw, his shapely lips, all hidden away beneath the wild, scarcely-kempt brambles.  His handsomeness, blatant nearly to the point of exaggeration, becomes difficult to discern, buried deeper and deeper as each day passes.

 

And Sansa vastly prefers him this way.

 

The shift is passing peculiar, when she takes the time to think on it- only a few short moons ago, she reserved her interests and affections for beautiful, beardless boys with roses in their cheeks and smiles on their lips.  When she kisses Jaime, she comes away with peculiar splotches on her chin- she’ll move her lips over his jaw, and the wiry hairs scrape and chap, sometimes with enough abrasion to draw blood.

 

With half his face hidden from sight, she can nearly imagine him as anyone else.  Not a Lannister, not the queen’s lover, not Joffrey’s father…just a man, any man, any man she wishes him to be.

 

Of course, the eyes never change, those emerald-green eyes that betray him each and every time.  She hates those eyes, loathes those eyes, spends countless moments cursing them and wishing for the courage to gouge them out, to shut them forever.

  
Nothing is perfect, least of all this.  Least of all him.  Least of all her.


	10. 10. Neck Kiss

She gasps when he brushes his lips over her throat, pressing gentle kisses to the hollow of her collarbone.  He sucks the delicate skin into his mouth with only the scarcest bit of force, and she whimpers high and desperate- he can feel the vibration of her vocal cords, and it sends ribbons of fire coursing through his veins.

 

From the way Sansa’s fingernails scrape at his scalp, from the way she arches her back and bites her lip, he knows well what she wants next.  She wants him to ravage the pristine whiteness of her neck, to leave vicious red stains and indentations from his teeth, to soil and desecrate and destroy.

 

But the skin is so fragile, so clean and pure, pale and perfect as freshly-fallen snow.  He knows the truth, but he needs the illusion- he cannot tear it asunder, for he cannot bear the responsibility, cannot bear the consequences…

  
And so, in spite of her impatient tugging and her huffs of protest, he gives her nothing but sweet, chaste kisses, as light and inconsequential as the fluttering of a butterfly’s wings.  


	11. 11. Collarbone Kiss

The bruise is dense and dark, nearly black in the faint moonlight.  Jaime sleeps more soundly tonight that he has in weeks; he had successfully warded off the brigands who tried to steal their wagon, and a pleasurable shiver creeps up Sansa’s spine when she remembers the joy, the energy, the burst of light in his eyes as he thrashed and hacked away with his sword, the speed of his left hand nearly compensating for lack of precision.  

 

He’d taken a swift hit to the collarbone from the hilt of his opponent’s sword.  The evidence is large and lurid- in spite of her own delicate, pale, freckled skin, she can’t remember ever bearing a bruise quite like this.  She is mesmerized by the inky epicenter, by the violet corona that fades into a sickly yellow at the very edges.  

 

Her fingertips lightly stroke over the bruise, and even in his heavy sleep, Jaime twitches and winces, his nose wrinkling and his brow furrowing. That his pain can interrupt him even in the depths of slumber irks her- she responds through impulse, dipping her head and brushing her lips over the inflammation.

 

It’s just what Mother used to do, when she and Arya would return from play with scrapes and welts…it’s what Father used to do, when she would take a tumble onto the parapets and her little child’s face would pucker and twist…

 

She has no agenda, she only wants to soothe and gentle, as a parent would a babe-

 

But when he smiles in his sleep, when he wraps his handless arm around her waist, the stump pressing into the small of her back, she feels another shiver, another flutter of pleasure that she cannot explain away.

 


	12. 12. Chest Kiss

She smooths her palms over his chest, the warm skin over defined muscles, littered with countless scars and scrapes and abrasions.  And as soon as her hands make contact with his bare flesh, his eyes snap shut- as they always do.  She has no reason to expect anything different.

 

But she pushes the disappointment aside (it’s just a dull ache now, borne out of habit more than actual dismay) and kisses the apple of his throat.  She scrapes her teeth over his neck, hoping for a hitching of the breath…but his chest just rises in rhythm, with a deliberate calm.

 

Usually, she would pepper a straight line of kisses down to his navel before pulling away his smallclothes.  But tonight, she pauses, a bright flicker of inspiration sparking in her heart as she shifts to the side and laves the tip of her tongue over his right nipple.

 

After all, she knows the pleasure she feels when he suckles her breasts, sending her nerve endings aflame.  And she recalls a wicked whisper from Mya back in the Vale, informing her that some men like their nipples played with as much as any woman.  

 

And, as usual, Mya proves correct once again.

 

The hair on his chest is softer than that of his beard and several shades lighter- in the low candlelight, it shimmers, a sunny and buttery yellow.  His nipples are small and pink, nearly as pale as her own, and they blush a pretty berry color when she nips at them with her teeth.  All the while, she rests her palm over his heart; the pulse quickens, and his breathing becomes ragged, and she nearly laughs in delicious triumph.

 

For he works so hard to maintain his composure- every time he comes apart in her arms, he keeps his eyes closed and his face still, with nothing but a shivering of the spine and the heat of his seed to signify his peak.  She knows his shame, his confusion, his reluctance to expose his battle-worn heart.  And yet, after all this time, all of these fitful nights together, he never allows her so much as a smile.  

 

But he’s smiling now.  Just a little upturn of the lips, but it’s enough to send a delirious joy rippling through her body, filling her from head to toe.

 

His hard cock presses urgently against her belly, and she’ll attend to it soon enough-

 

But first, she surges upward and closes her mouth over his, determined to taste his smile before it inevitably fades away.

 


	13. 13.  Stomach Kiss

The icy Northern winds ravage his body, ripping at his skin, blanching the fingertips of his left hand, freezing the golden proxy to his right arm until he cannot remove it, however hard he tugs.  

 

Jaime Lannister, a Southron son accustomed to sunshine and summer, would gladly let the Others take this miserable, barren, inhospitable land…

 

But when he returns to Winterfell in the dead of night and falls into the soft, warm, fragrant arms of the Lady Wolf, he allows his bitterness and contempt to thaw and melt away.

 

Sansa smooths her palms over the tight muscles of his back as he kisses his way down her throat, smiling into her skin as she hums her pleasure.  He takes one of her breasts in his left hand, relishing the soft weight (it’s even softer than he remembers, heavier and rounder, and he gives into his impatience, swooping his head down to capture her pink nipple between his lips and teeth).  

 

She fidgets beneath him as he moves his way down her abdomen, and he lowers his hands to hold her hips in place before pressing open-mouthed kisses to her belly.

 

As soon as she disrobed, he noticed the roundness of her stomach.  He considered it a welcome change; they’d both grown gaunt during their travels, and it pleased him to see her comfortably settled and well-fed.  But there is no yield to the swell of her belly, none of the softness of robust weight.  The mass is firm beneath her skin, and her navel, normally a pretty divot perfectly-sized for the tip of his tongue, peeks upward and outward.

 

Jaime freezes, his breath shallow in his lungs as the memories strike him like a wall of water.  He recalls kneeling before Cersei as she guided his two hands to cup her swollen stomach, her lips upturned with a secret smile meant only for him…

 

Nausea rankles his gut, and he vaults from the bed and sprints to Sansa’s bathing chamber.  “Jaime,” she calls, her voice tentative and weary, but he can scarcely hear her over the sound of his own retching.

 


End file.
